


Confessio

by justmariamay



Series: Chime [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel/Demon Relationship, Blood and Violence, Confessions, Demon Dean, Gates of Hell, Gen, How Do I Tag, M/M, Obsession, Soul Selling, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-13 07:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10508796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justmariamay/pseuds/justmariamay
Summary: Dean has to set the machine of Apocalypse in motion. Can't be that hard, right? Can't be that easy either.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to continue this AU. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Encounter with Michael is still fresh on Dean’s mind even though 12 years have passed, here in Hell. He finds himself again staring at high walls of Satan’s prison remembering that Michael left a message, but Dean never could deliver it. While it’s not exactly bad news, Dean wants to spare Hell from another tantrum Devil throws once in a while. There was something Michael said, about Dean giving himself to Lucifer… Looking at the mark on his arm, knight of Hell realizes it in full measure. He doesn’t feel any particular loyalty to the creature behind those indestructible walls, but he doesn’t have to. He put chains on himself and never got to regret this, for how both grounding and liberating this captivity is. Though, the way Michael said that… as if Dean chose Lucifer instead of him, as if Dean betrayed him.

“Still pining for your sweet angel?” Abaddon teases. She knew he met Michael, could literally smell it on him. Dean is grateful she treats it like a joke, never taking his unhealthy obsession with celestial being seriously. It helps him also not think of it seriously.

“He wasn’t _sweet_ ,” Dean grunts. It’s the last word Dean would use to describe him. Huge? Yes. Terrifying? Oh yes. Fucking deadly? Hell yes.

Abaddon laughs:

“Oh, don’t worry, Dean. He was just being shy, he’ll warm up to you.”

“Sure, he’ll so warm up he’ll fucking incinerate me,” Dean replies sarcastically.

“Absolutely,” Abaddon agrees and they laugh together. It’s not even funny. Or maybe it’s nothing but. Though Dean hopes Lucifer can’t hear them or if he does he has no idea what they are talking about. Demon’s guts tell him Lucifer won’t appreciate the humor.

Jokes aside, they have work to do. Lilith needs to get out of Hell, problem is she can get out only using the Gates. Some demons can find cracks or count on witches and unfortunate summoners, but somebody took care of Lilith’s case, she can’t even step into Purgatory. But her presence topside is crucial, Dean doesn’t know how, but she said she had a ‘key’.  

It was Azazel’s job, that yellow-eyed demon Dean killed, that son of a bitch who killed his mom, and Dean made that deal with Cain to get a weapon that would destroy him. What’s done is done. It only postponed the great plan a little. Only now Dean is the one who has to find a way to open freaking Gates from outside. Worst thing is that apparently Yellow Eyes had everything taped and Dean has no idea where the Gates are. Not to mention he now also has to get a ‘righteous man’ for Alastair to torture and it must set Apocalypse in motion.

“How the Hell do I find Gates?” he voices his doubts to Abaddon. As his mentor, she has to help. Or she’ll be a complete bitch as always.

“Let’s see… There are 7 big ones, one of them is at the bottom of the ocean. Ever heard of Atlantis?” ok, she decides to be a bitch. “There is also Houska Castle, but that pit is heavily guarded, we’ll need an army.  So…”

“Just tell me which!” Dean snaps.

“Ooh, I don’t even know. You can always ask little Meg what Azazel had in mind,” Abaddon’s sharp nail trails down his chin.

Shit, Meg. She caused him a lot of trouble when he was alive. And then she killed him. Simple bullet, no knives, no slow torturous death. Really, she deserves some respect for that. She probably didn’t expect him to turn into knight of Hell right away. He didn’t either. Now they mutually hate each other, which is fine and fair and all, but… Damn. Dean remembers that Meg serves as Alastair’s apprentice these days. What a joy. Abaddon will mock him to the End of Days if Dean asks her to talk to Meg.

Dean groans in frustration and stalks away from the cage.

Finally, alone with himself and his personal Hell, Dean starts cutting lines on the nearest wall before he can starts cutting lines on his own skin. That’s fun too, but he’ll save it for later. Hell around screams, and weeps, and pleads, and laughs in cold delirium.

“Hear it, Michael? Those are my harps and trumpets,” Dean does it again, this time perfectly aware that Michael indeed does hear. This time name has sort of a picture behind it and hurts even better than before. It’s teeth and nails tearing his flesh apart, it’s knife-sharp feathers slashing his throat, it’s painfully kind and gently cruel eyes watching his torment. Drinking his torment like a cup of poison. It makes Dean’s dirty blood sing. He doesn’t ever try to free himself of Michael, of power the mere name of his has over him. It’s too late for that.

But, he has business to attend to. Meg. Oh, he’s thrilled. Trip to torturers’ den is like going to a museum. The masochist in him regrets his soul skipped that sort of initiation, on another hand it saved his handsome face, more or less.   

Rattle of chains accompanies Dean all the way and all the pretty characteristic sounds greet him when he steps into Alastair’s domain. And there is a bastard himself, scaring some freshly fledged demon and everyone else.

Alastair glares at him and Dean glares right back. He can’t help feeling some kind of hot venomous jealousy, which he also felt it towards that poor guy Michael possessed, towards anyone who ever _had_ Michael. It’s so silly. Does Alastair feel anything like this or did he ever? Dean doesn’t want the answer. He passes by, ignoring the sadistic grin on the archdemon face, and soon enters Meg’s torture chamber without an invitation.

“Get out, Winchester,” she hisses not bothering to face him, busy flaying face off a sinner on a bloody rack. Used to be such a pretty face.

“Hate to interrupt your work and hate even more to need your help.”

A miserable wail fills the room as Meg practically rips off that face, instantly turning to Dean. Her face is blank but the blackness of her eyes is uniquely expressive. Challenge, wrath, pain. All for him, Dean feels flattered if a little bit uneasy.

She waits, daring him to speak. She has to wait long enough. Screams died down to pitiful whimpers. Dean can step over his pride for once. He won’t even remember it as soon as Lilith is free. So he speaks and Meg listens, more carefully than he expected she would.

“Why should I help you?” Meg replies nonchalantly when he finishes. “You’re the one who screwed our plans in the first place. You tortured me. You killed Azazel and Tom. Besides, a big bad demon as yourself can handle this little task.”

She says it as if it doesn’t hurt anymore. Oh, but Dean did hurt her nice, her and her strangely caring demon heart, and the wounds are still fresh and tender. Still visible. Dean could reach and pry his fingers into them.

“You killed me,” he shots back. “Blew my brains out,” literally. Dean expected to die from werewolf’s claws or vampire’s fangs, not from a gunshot.

“Didn’t serve you any good,” nor it did to her.

Dean desperately tries to think of something to use. Azazel was Lucifer’s most loyal servant, worshipped him, spilled rivers of blood in his name. So maybe…

“I’m not asking for myself, you know,” of course he does. “This is bigger than you and me, Meg. The sooner I open the Gates, the sooner Lucifer rises. You don’t want to make him wait, now do you?”

Meg’s face twists with conflicted emotions. It was a low blow. And Dean doesn’t care at all. But apparently Meg cares for Lucifer. What a strange demon, she needs to care and she has nothing else to care about.

“Come on, Meg, work with me. For _our father’s_ sake,” he presses. He knows how to recognize daddy issues when he sees them. Use to have those.

Meg curses loud and dirty, kicks him out from her torture chamber and promises to kill him again, but Dean knows he’s won. And as he predicted she came around soon enough, Dean didn’t have to wait long. Hostile and irritated, Meg found him and told him she’ll get those Gates opened. Dean only needs to stay close and see that no one interferes.

“Demons can’t touch the Gates, but I’ll bring someone who can,” she promises and all her look says: _I’m not doing this for you, you cocky bastard._

Dean takes them to the topside and Meg flies off to find herself a new ‘dress’ after telling him when and where they meet, so Dean gets himself another weekend. He wonders how to spend it, ever since he met Michael he hasn’t been able to enjoy himself as he used to. Now, back on earth, where time goes by so fast and everything is fleeting, where Hell’s crazed sweet oblivion loses its grip, Dean remembers.

_Did you know your father was looking for you? Your brother?_ Michael’s words resound in his ears. And now Dean can’t help wondering, do they still? The sudden nostalgia wraps him into prickly suffocating blanket.

Damn, how easily Michael got under his skin. Even Alastair had to try harder than this.

Dean better concentrate on more important matters. Righteous man, huh? Probably, can be a woman, too. How does one sells their soul and stays righteous? Should’ve consulted with Lilith or her little piggy Crowley.

Also the concept of ‘righteousness’ is vague for Dean. Was he righteous before he died? Hardly. Is dad? Maybe, but Dean is not so sure. Bobby? Bobby is not bad, but not very good either. Also, Dean will have to kill him as soon as the man sprays holy water in his face instead of greeting, old paranoid drunkard. Someone else? Oh yes, there is someone. Someone who can’t not be righteous. Whether he can make him sell his soul is another question, but something tells him he’ll be successful.

Dean cringes at the thought of entering the church again, but a part of him can’t wait. How soon good old pastor James Murphy figures him out? At the thought of this small cat and mouse game to come, Dean finally regains touch with himself. This is going to be fun. He has time to kill anyway before Meg is ready. Might as well take a drive to Minnesota.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been an eternity, hasn't it? But once in eternity I get back to my bad writing...

The road is painfully familiar. The car still reeks with the blood of former owner, a nice middle-aged lady who was kind and naïve enough to give Dean a lift. Radio plays some shitty music occasionally switching to ads or weather forecast. It’s going to rain tonight.

He enters the lonely church in the morning, briefly touches the water in a small basin, feels it burn and hears the hissing sound. He doesn’t cross himself, it would be too hypocritical.

There is only a young woman sitting and praying, no one else at the moment. No matter, he wouldn’t be above killing a whole crowd of so called believers if needed. Dean just sits on the front bench on another side in a bit frivolous pose and waits. The holiness of the place feels less aggressive compared to the other church, but it’s not any more pleasant. His fingers tap the wooden surface impatiently. He doesn’t think what he’s going to say, he prefers to improvise. He thinks about Meg and her raw pain, about Lilith and Lucifer. And yes, he’s burning himself, thinking about Michael, how immovable he seemed and how Dean managed to shake him. What a stupid request… _Pray for me._ And does he? Neither of two possible answers seems overly satisfying to the demon.

“Dean? Is that you?” voice echoes from the high walls.

There he is, pastor Jim, having more white hair than Dean remembers. Demon smiles widely and stands up. He didn’t notice when the praying girl left.

“That’s me,” he confirms and offers his hand to shake.

Oh, those kind eyes, that have always looked at Dean with such gentleness.

“Haven’t heard from your father for a long time,” he mentions.

“Me neither,” Dean shrugs. “You know how he is,” dad’s always been incorrigible like that.

“How is Sam doing?”

Now, that’s an interesting question. Dean shrugs.

“Honestly, I have no idea. Haven’t seen him in a while,” in eternity. “I’m sure he’s alright,” he’s Sam, bright kid, dad’s favorite and all that.

Jim smiles and nods. He was always fonder of Sam than of Dean. No wonder, Sam was more open and curious and so full of hope.

“What brings you here, Dean? Is there something you need?” pastor inquires.

_‘Yeah, your soul,’_ Dean thinks.

“Just happened to be in the area,” he lies easily. He pretends to study the stained glass above. Such a pretty thing, never paid it any attention before.

“Hunting?” because Dean’s never been doing anything else.

“Not at the moment.”

“What was your last hunt, Dean?” pastor asks.

Dean grins and replies honestly:

“A demon,” that was surprisingly tough son of the bitch. Dean can’t even remember why they fought, but Hell sometimes just makes you do things without any clear reason.

Pastor Jim doesn’t seem amused though, his expression thoughtful.

“There are a lot of demons these days, past week I had to exorcise two. All hunters I know talk about them appearing everywhere. It’s like…” he stops considering his words.

“End of the world?” Dean supplies.

Pastor sighs and lightly pats his shoulder. Warm touch is followed by warm words:

“It’s disturbing but we need to hope for the best. Forlorness is a sin.”

Dean hides another smile, bows his head and quietly repeats:

“Sin…” that’s what Dean lives on now. “I pray a lot these days, can you imagine that?”

_You repeat my name over and over, Dean. What are you praying for?_

“You never seemed a religious kind, Dean,” Jim comments carefully, ready for this ‘serious’ conversation.

“I wasn’t. I learned your god exists, pastor Jim. I know Devil exists. And angels, too. It’s not even a question of faith,” not for a long time, whole another life Dean got a chance to live, life more meaningful than the mortal one.

Pastor turns to the altar, thoughtful. Dean studies his profile, counting every wrinkle on that kind face.

“Dad never believed in angels,” Dean remembers. “Sam did. What about you?”

“I’m more like you in that matter,” Jim closes his eyes for a moment and says softly, “I _know_ they exist.”

Knight of Hell looks at priest with curiosity. Dean used to mock faith and religion, not always openly, but he didn’t respect people who believed in god and other stupid things. Often pitied them. But he always respected pastor Jim. Because he was a hunter. Because he was… a family, yeah. Because he never tried to push Sam or Dean into his religion, preached only to Sam when Sam asked him to. He is secure in his beliefs and knowledge. And too kind for his own good.

“If you met one what would you do?” Dean wonders.

“In the Bible angels are usually bad news,” Jim replies, then shrugs, “I don’t know. Say hello, so I don’t seem rude?”

Dean laughs louder than necessary at that. He didn’t even properly greet his angel, dumbfounded by his sudden tangible presence.   

It’s Pastor’s turn to study Dean.

“There’s something very different about you, Dean,” Jim marks.

“I guess, it’s been a long time after all,” he says evasively, but then decides to have a little heart-to-heart, a little confession. “I was more of an idealist than I believed myself to be. I really wanted to save the world. Kill all the monsters, save all the people. I believed I made difference. It made me blind, I didn’t even notice where I myself became the monster,” Dean chuckles, not bitterly at all. He can’t even blame Cain or his mark for that, his every decision was his only. He was a murderer because he chose so, true and simple. He doesn’t let Jim speak yet. “It’s better now, I have clear and achievable purpose. New friends, new enemies,” new family too. “An actual home, where I can always return, even if it’s a literal hell pit. I still travel a lot though, doing my job,” because in home like that with constantly angry father and nasty siblings you can bear only this long. 

“Home is always good. But what about John and Sam?”

The question doesn’t catch Dean off guard. Words come easily this time.

“What about them?” what a tiny miserable world it was to live in. World that revolved around three people, one of whom was dead since Dean was four and two others never cared that much for him to begin with. Dean sometimes remembers that once the most important thing in the world was protecting little Sammy. It seems funny now. Sammy grew up. Sammy and daddy fought. Sammy the drama queen slammed the door and left. Truth is, only after death, after Meg put a bullet in his head, after his eyes opened and he saw world in new colors, Dean stopped blaming Sam for that. “It was time for me to be my own person, Pastor.”

Alcohol. Women. Hunting. Family business. It was all an escape. Dean wonders what was real after all. Except for dad and Sam. Except for mom burning on the ceiling. But… Cassie was real.  So was Lisa. And he wanted them. As always, he wanted things he could never have. It’s one of the things that hasn’t changed. Inexplicable longing that so often turns into river of fire. For something. For someone. Someone whose name is like a burning coal in his lungs. He briefly closes his eyes because they feel wet for some reason. It’s probably the stupid church affecting him this way. But he lets the blackness of the Abyss to chase unwelcome tears away and then lets the Abyss to gaze at Pastor Jim and his radiant soul.

Pastor gasps and starts the exorcism immediately. Dean only laughs as his demonic spirit shifts uncomfortably inside him but has no intention to leave this cozy prison of mortal flesh. It’s his body, he doesn’t share it with anyone else. He cuts the flow of Latin words short with a hard push in the center of priest’s chest, right where the cross hangs. He breaks Jim’s ribs and sends him flying. He lands breaking a bench and after few attempts sits up. Dean approaches and meets sad and angry eyes without shame.

“Who are you?” Jim croaks and blood spurs from his mouth. “Is… is Dean dead?” he asks brokenly.

Oh. How sweet. Only good old pastor can find time to mourn some ungrateful brat while choking on his own blood. How sweet. How sad.

“It’s me,” Dean replies sitting down on one knee in front of him. “It’s me, Pastor. It was me who sat here watching you pray. I thought it was beautiful, meaningless, but beautiful. It was me, who spilled the wine before your service once. You never punished me. You didn’t even say anything. Shame, I liked listening to you. Sammy was the one who asked you endless questions but it was I who really listened.”

He touches slightly stubbled cheek in half-mocking half-genuine caress. His nail is digging into tender skin and draws a red line. Only a hitched breath. Another’s hand tries to slap his away, but Dean catches it and nails it to the wooden plank with Cain’s blade. Jim shouts once and bites his tongue. Dean leans closer to his face, scenting incense and blood.

“It’s me. Yes, I’m a demon now. I’m ash. I’m pain. I’m abyss. I’m dead. And you can’t imagine how good it feels,” he whispers into priest’s ear.  

His free hand curls around Jim’s neck and feels his frantic pulse. It goes lower and tears the rosary off. Within a second Dean slices his leg, where he knows an old wound is. This time pastor doesn’t scream, desperately gritting his teeth, but he can’t help moaning when blade pierces his shoulder. This pain is far from the worst of what awaits the righteous man down in Hell.

“I have a deal for you, Jim. You give me your soul and after we’re done I won’t go after our friends, I won’t even ever point any other demon to their direction. I’ll never hurt them, unless they try to hurt me first, of course,” that he can afford offering in exchange.

“What makes you think I…” the man starts, but Dean covers his mouth and doesn’t let him finish.

Pastor’s eyes are aflame. Oh, Dean hasn’t miscalculated, this is what he needs. This soul shines through those eyes, through the fresh wounds, trapped in the fragile aging flesh. Seeing it so close, Dean wants it. It’ll be such a shame to give such treasure to Alastair. But they’ll see about that.  

“You don’t make a deal – I kill you and make few calls to our common acquaintances. Do you think Caleb is a righteous guy?” Dean tilts his head in question and trails the tip of his blade under Jim’s wide opened eye cutting slightly wrinkled skin. “Maybe my dad is. Or Sam. Sammy’s always been such a good boy, hasn’t he?” Sammy was a little shit, but to everyone he was a little angel. Angel! That’s funny. But good pastor had a soft spot for him. As he had for Dean and Dean shamelessly used it.

“I’ll kill you anyway, so think. Is your paradise more important than lives and security of your friends?” Dean knows that lives of others are not worth the eternity of torment, nothing is. But pastor Jim will have to learn it the hard way. He’ll agree, he’s ready to give in, Dean can see it.

“Come on, Jim,” he urges.

“Say their names. All of them and swear you won’t harm them,” Jim demands, strong even in defeat.

“A noble choice,” Dean approves. “Fine, here we go. John Winchester, Sam Winchester, Caleb Wren, Bobby Singer, Lee Chambers, Hellen and Joanne Harvelle, Rufus Turner…” he patiently remembers all the hunters he knows or knows of. Not too many, but he’s a little surprised at his memory. “I swear I won’t harm any of them unless they try to harm me first, I swear no demon will learn about them from me. Once I get your soul the deal is sealed and I won’t be able to break it. Good enough for you?”

“I can’t get anything better, can I?” Jim replies. He can get Paradise, but Dean isn’t going to remind him. “Dean,” seems like it hurts him to say this name, it stings Dean as well. “Just… one last prayer.”

“Of course, old friend,” Dean removes the blade and helps the wounded pastor up.  

He makes few unsteady steps and falls on his knees, holds his bleeding hand with the other and reads the usual psalm. Useless, God has no power in Hell. Dean watches and wonders if he’ll keep praying strapped to Alastair’s rack, being sliced into pieces. How long will it take to make kindhearted pastor to spill blood of a sinner? Will he even break? Dean is looking forward to witness it.

Finally, Jim stands up on his own and turns to Dean. Demon gets closer and there is no more words, they’ve said enough. Blood on Jim’s lips is warm, but his soul which Dean puts his claim on is thousands times more so.

It’s done. Dean finally buries the Firs blade in Pastors back, making his death slow, and sees life leaving the broken body as it sinks down and curls into itself.

Dad will know about Jim’s death soon. And he will do everything he can to find the culprit. Dean is tempted to leave a message, a hint, that it’s him wo did it, that this is what he has become. He wants to shove it to dad’s face so badly. It will complicate keeping the terms of this deal but… Ah, what does he even care?  He has his prize. Time to collect it.

“Uh-uh-uh, that’s mine, pretty,” he says possessively to a reaper that came to do her job.

She wearily eyes him and this shining soul he holds. Her brows furrow in confusion. The soul is so bright that she can’t see Dean’s brand on it right away. But then she does and steps back.

“Yours, Cain,” she confirms in flat voice and disappears.

She called him Cain. Interesting. Are they so alike? Is it the Mark or the Blade? Either way the irony’s not completely off. Dean has just killed someone he loved and respected, someone who use to be his family. And he is going to throw him into Alastair’s pits. That’s messed up. He shakes his head and doesn’t look up.

“See? This is all because of you, Michael,” he chuckles darkly.  

_This is all for you._

“Michael,” he repeats breathlessly, letting this hellfire burn brighter. “My punisher angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so mean... Poor Jim. In the next chapter Dean/Michael will get some action (nothing nice of course), there will be sassy Meg and gates of Hell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duuude! It's over. That was unnecessarily long journey, but I thank everyone who walked with me. This was hard to write. There is a chance I'll continue it, maybe... I guess...

Meg’s new dress looks different, safe for the outfit. It suits her, that mischievous face. He really destroyed her previous meatsuit. To think he actually managed to lure Azazel out using her…

Well, she’s not alone, brought someone as she promised. A tall young man with dark skin and military uniform. Meg doesn’t bother to introduce them. Whatever.

Dean smells the gunpowder about him. So, an actual soldier then? The guy looks composed, but Dean can feel doubt and fear all over him.

“A human,” he states unimpressed.

Meg grins.

“A little more than that. Jake, honey, make us a passage.”

Jake pointedly doesn’t look at any of them. Just walks over and tears the rails from the ground, then breaks them with too much ease even for a demon. What a freak. Dean glances at Meg who shrugs and enters the broken trap. Dean follows and catches up with her.

“What’s the deal with the boy-wonder here?”

“Azazel…” she stumbles. “He made several special kids, like him.”

“Ooh, did your daddy cheat on your mom?”

Meg obviously doesn’t appreciate the joke.

“Very funny, Winchester,” then she smiles, wide and fake. “But yes, and he cheated with your mom, too, if we’re going to use this term,” she spits with contempt.

“Huh?” Dean doesn’t get what’s she’s just said. “The hell?”

Instead of an answer he gets Meg’s middle finger into his face. He makes a mental note to cut it off later. They walk, Meg often whispers something to Jake, probably encouraging him. Or threatening. Dean doesn’t listen. It’s getting dark and the first stars appear in the clear sky. Dean realizes he hasn’t seen them for ages. Didn’t pay attention when he had the chance, and in Hell there is only one star, shining even through the thick walls, illuminating their sins.

They arrive to a small old cemetery. Cemetery in the middle of nowhere? Or maybe there used to be a settlement here and it’s gone because of the opened gates? Logical.

“There,” Meg shows at stone doors of a crypt.

Yeah, Dean can see now why demons can’t touch it. Even on the other side black spirits are burning to dust trying to break through. Desperate bunch. Sigils are carved with care and precision and the stone itself seems to reek with holiness, keeping the stench of sulfur behind it, but it can’t contain the noise.

This place has to be guarded. Why bother going through so much trouble as building the railroads if no one watches the door itself? It has to be, but by whom? People? Or something else? Seems like Meg has the same thoughts.

“Watch out, Winchester,” she warns.

“You watch out,” he snaps. But his blade is already secured in his hand and the Mark pulses with anticipation. It’s been going smoothly until now, but the air is charged with tension. “Your time to shine, boy-wonder,” he shows Jake at the doors.

Jake does it effortlessly. The Hell Azazel did to the kid… As soon as the gates are opened (a tiny hole, hardly gates), demons rush to the topside, fighting, biting each other. What surprises Dean is that they are not touching Jake, don’t try to possess the first vacant body and avoid him instead, not as they don’t seem him, more like they’re afraid of him. Then Dean notices Lilith, who slides through the swarm with grace, he feels her faint touch and whisper: “Well done”.

Suddenly Dean hears something else over the screaming and growling sounds. He grabs Jake’s and forces him away, practically throws him to Meg.

“Take the kid and get away from here,” he says through his teeth, tense and ready. As ready as he can be.

“What the hell, Dean?”

“Not Hell, the opposite,” not the time to be a smartass, he just can’t help it.

Meg’s eyes go wide as she looks up, she takes Jake’s hand and runs. Part of Dean wants to join them, but most of him is mesmerized as he looks up.

The endless flow of blackness is cut by four rays of brightest light. His angel is up there and this time he hasn’t come alone. Fascinated by the slaughter above, Dean doesn’t at first notice one of the angels coming down and starting to push the doors closed. He can take this one, he thinks. Angels are hard to kill but not impossible, Abaddon made sure he’d remember it.

Cain’s blade cuts the vessel across her back with less ease than Dean is used to, but the angel lets go of the doors before they are closed completely. Next second a warm palm touches his forehead. Grace sears his eyes but doesn’t blind him, goes through him without leaving a permanent damage. He swings the blade again, Mark of Cain pulsates with bloodthirsty heat, driving his hand, his entire soul in for the kill. Angel’s blood splashed on his face and he hisses from its poisonous holiness. The angel’s on her knees, her big doe eyes grows even bigger in confusion as she grips her own throat trying to stop the blood. Looks like she wants to scream, to say something, but only gapes for air she isn’t supposed to need. What a pretty sight, Dean thinks, raising the blade for another blow. How many would it take to kill her? He’s going to find out. He’s going to make her bleed until…

Suddenly something sweeps him off his feet and throws away. Through haze he realizes he’s been hit by nothing else but wing. A really big one. Sharp feathers tore his jacket’s sleeve and left red trails on his arm and neck. Before he can get up a sound, which is not a sound at all, pins him down again, his head feels like blowing up any moment soon.  He could swear there is some tune to it, some kind of cruel harmony and meaning. He could swear it’s Michael’s voice, giving out an order.

Dean’s eyes and ears bleed when it gets quiet. Awfully quiet, the sky is clear from the black smoke, and even those behind the door have fallen silent too. Or maybe Dean’s become deaf.

Now there is only him and Michael, who has pushed the door closed. The sigils are revived under his hands, flaming up with white and blue colors. For once Michael looks… not invincible, not unshakable, almost vulnerable. And Dean can see it. Dean is allowed to see it. He gets back to his feet, battered, unstable, but the weight of the blade and the pulsing mark make up for every weakness.

Dean comes closer, feeling the slight tremor in the air. It’s angel’s wings shake from the strain. Despite the pure burning grace that threatens to destroy him, Dean presses himself against Michael’s back. Michael doesn’t move or acknowledge his audacity, not yet, so Dean’s free arm wraps around vessel’s frame, he buries his nose in silvery locks and inhales. He can sense Michael behind human scent and he smells painfully pure. That’s all, Dean has no suitable comparison to describe it better. And this is it, Michael is beyond any comparison, so far beyond Dean’s reach; even having him here, right in his arms, Dean can’t perceive him.

Finally, Michael stiffens in his hold and to Dean’s chagrin gather’s his grace tighter and tighter until it’s hidden beneath vessel’s skin.

“Michael,” Dean is surprised to hear plea in his own voice. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t.

Michael stops breathing. As the whole world does for a moment.

“What have you done to me, Michael?” he ruined Dean without doing anything at all. “What are you doing to me? Michael,” he repeats the name and savors every petal of flame in his chest, every drop of blood that gathers in his mouth, every reopening scar on his soul.

“Dean,” comes clear but quiet voice. There is no warning or threat, nothing but soft recognition.

Dean hates him. Dean wants him. Those feelings are not contradicting each other. No. If Dean hurts Michael, he’ll satisfy them both. How does Michael take pain? Does he fight it? Does he embrace it? Does he endure? Is he afraid of it? The idea seems ridiculous. But can Dean make him afraid?

Michael removes his arm with ease and turns around leaning heavily on the doors, head hung, eyes closed.

“Dean,” he repeats and a red streak leaves his mouth, eyes still shut.

Demon dreads the moment angel opens them, because as soon as he does everything around will sink in endless sea of fire. Dean’s world will perish from one single glance and he’ll have to rebuilt it from these ruins.

He used to be afraid of flying, planes made him sick. This fear didn’t die with him, but it also merged with that crazy wish to fall from the high when you stand on the very edge of the abyss. It is what he feels. But he is not ready to leap, so he covers Michael’s eyes with his palm and presses the back of his head to the door, not caring for hundreds of other eyes the angel supposed to possess, because he isn’t able to see them. 

Michael lets him get away with so much. Why? Not that Dean really cares. Not, when he can have it. His hand that holds Cain’s blade trembles. Out of fear, out of bloodlust. He puts the blade against Michael’s exposed neck and the pulse under soft skin doesn’t change its serene pace. It’s still shaking, right until Michael holds his wrist. Eyelashes flutter under his palm and Dean presses it firmer.

“Go, Dean,” Michael says, the vessel’s voice is kind, just generally kind and Dean thinks it doesn’t suit Michael. “Don’t make me part of your misery,” warm breath touches Dean’s chin and the request rings with sorrow.

“Why? Don’t I deserve it?”  

“It’s not my place to decide what you deserve — I’m not your judge, I’m not your punisher,” slight shake of his head and soft hair tickle Dean’s hand.

“Then what are you to me?” his lips touch angel’s cheek as he speaks.

“Something you should learn to let go,” the reply is gentle, so gentle that Dean’s mark aches with anger and the blade draws blood. And Michael doesn’t stop that hand.

“I…” Dean starts.

He suddenly realizes what he is to Michael. He’s an echo. Loud, far and long echo of Michael’s whole. His black soul reaches out to the angel, longing for something warm and alive, but they just keep walking through one another. Dean just hits the wall and tries again, will try again and again until he fades away completely, until Michael becomes silent forever.

If… If Dean didn’t do this to himself, if he still was human, he would be more real, less transparent. Michael wouldn’t hesitate to embrace him, to bless him, to love him. They wouldn’t say each other’s names like a curse. They wouldn’t be in this fragile, nearly unreal and yet so intense pain. _But then_ , a cold treacherous voice in his head doubts, _would you want Michael? Would you pray to him with every breath? Would you love him?_

No. No. Of course, not. Dean wouldn’t want Michael, because back then he hated pain, faith and anything stronger than him, anything that wasn’t human. There is nothing human about Michael. And this is a virtue that a human Dean wouldn’t take nicely to say the least. How unfair is it? Michael would have loved (or did love?) past Dean and past Dean deserved his love no more than new Dean does.

And Michael… what is he to Dean? His bane, his enemy, his death. The mystery in the end of Dean’s long path. His doubt. His… hope.

Michael heard. Dean didn’t say any of this, but his crazy thoughts are way too loud, like always.

“Hopes and regrets… I know you’ll choose the light over them. You’ll choose the Morning Star.”

“I don’t care for Lucifer,” it’s a lie, as soon as those words leave his mouth they turn into lie and Michael smiles his tiny knowing smile. Dean refuses to believe that his unholy father in the cage has so much power over him. But denying it doesn’t make it less real. It was his cold breath that brought Dean back as a demon. And yet…

“I want you,” Dean says stubbornly. “I want _you_ , Michael.”

“You won’t have me, Dean,” he finally moves away the hand that covered his eyes, but thankfully keeps them closed for now. “And I won’t have you.”

Dean didn’t expect anything else. He really didn’t, so why is it so hard to accept the only possible answer? And yet, his cursed soul earns for Heaven… no, for just one angel. All the rest be damned. Before he can voice any of it, the other part of him along with the Mark and the blade acts. He buries the deadly weapon under the vessel’s ribs and washes his hands in holy blood.

It makes Michael look at him. And it’s happening. What Dean knew would happen is happening. The world around is falling apart until it’s only him and Michael in the timeless emptiness. To say it’s scary is to say nothing. If he lives through this, his fears surely won’t. Because Michael is looking at him, just him, and Dean can’t hide behind his arrogant smirk, or even behind the blackness of his eyes. Because Michael’s eyes don’t shine with blue and white like the other angel’s, but turn from human transparent blue into the color that’s even darker than black, the black that consumes all the light there is, not rejecting it like Dean’s does.

More than anything Dean wants Michael to hurt him back, not only by simply existing, not only by looking at him or listening to him. He needs something more tangible: punch to the stomach, fingers on his neck or sword in his chest. He gets it and more than he can handle. Michael’s grace envelops him, enters every pore, gentle, but unstoppable, heavenly purity, prayers that Michael has indeed offered for Dean, that only tear angel has ever cried for him, red with blood, fire and pain. Only one, but it threatens to drown Dean. Only one, but it’s more than anyone ever gave him. But then this murderous holiness begins to withdraw and Dean finds himself unwilling to let go. The fear is gone, Michael has killed it without mercy. Death isn’t the worst that can happen. He holds on, holds on as Michael reverses their positions and Hell from the other side of the Gates latches on him to bring him back. Dean holds on in some crazy suicidal delirium. But Michael… Michael lets go and Dean is falling back into infernal embrace.

_You won’t have me. And I won’t have you._

Lying in the bloody mud, Dean coughs violently because the grace burns so bad and Dean’s lungs are too small to contain it. His face is wet, from blood or even tears. He stares at the First Blade covered with angelic blood. Blood that stayed on his hands hasn’t dried up yet, still warm, not burning his skin anymore, but so warm and… alive. Dean has never felt his hands this clean. He looks up and there is only darkness, there is only darkness all around. But its strangely, blissfully, quiet here, in Hell. Light steps fall in with this silence, and so are the words spoken next.

“It’s going to kill you,” the cold voice tells him. Dean doesn’t have to look, Alastair’s presence slithers around him with unmistakable cruelty. “Don’t you know, boy?” the archdemon looks down and white meets black.

“What am I supposed to know?” Dean whispers, for the first time in his unlife, he holds his voice, his thoughts down.

He thinks Alastair is going to laugh. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even smile. It isn’t that funny, Dean supposes, not even Alastair’s kind of funny. Alastair stretches the silence, like a bowstring, and puts his words over it like arrows, drips them into poison that is Michael’s blood before firing them. But when he does, they sound soft and go through Dean unexpectedly gently, and the truth settles in the bloody nests they made.

“Love is death, Dean.”’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I headcanon Michael's eyes black and that demons got their eyes from uncle Michael.   
> Anyway, it is what it is. I know it's probably not what readers want for this ship, but that's what you get from me. I'll be honest and say that for now I can see no way of this getting a happy ending. Not even happy-ish. But if you wan't me to continue this AU, please let me know. And let me know what you think of this in general.  
> Thank you for reading!


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